


Poco A Poco

by boobeika



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Kim Jongin | Kai, M/M, Musicians, Pianist Park Chanyeol, Piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 10:09:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobeika/pseuds/boobeika
Summary: Chanyeol, a washed up pianist and child prodigy, longs to revive his genius with a new sonata, to be performed with the accompaniment of a ballerino. When he appeals for a dancer to perform alongside him, Kim Jongin, professional ballerino with the Paris Opera Ballet who longs to break free of background roles, answers the call.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> hiya, welcome to poco a poco! this is my new chankai fic. chapter one will be out (not so) soon, so look forward to it <3
> 
> barely proofread btw

A soft melody echoes throughout as deep brown eyes flutter closed, melancholic whispers gently speaking to the man as he leans back in his chair, allowing the melodies to overtake him, take him away to his own world, a kingdom of wonder and imagination in which he is the ruler, the god, the sole inhabitant. He feels every note within him, reaching into his very soul, the remnants of his grandeur, speaking to every fibre of his being. Every sound calls for him, beckons him, pulls him a little closer to an understanding of himself, of the world which turned such an oddity of an existence towards him, such skills and genius overshadowed by such plagues of hatred and uncertainty. His hands trace each movement of the piece, slender fingers moving as though he were playing it himself, feeling each beat as fury and melancholy float away from him, each worry slipping through his unwilling grasp with each tender press of the key. Soft hums waft through the air as his voice, too, follows each sound. Alone in the chair, the only sound him and his musical treasures, he seems at peace, mind laying in eternal bliss as his soul is lost to the sound, yet, as the piece draws to a close and his mind is lured back to silence, he is nudged into his wordless despair once again. 

The soft sounds of his pieces float away from him, replaced by the distant traffic of Monday morning’s Paris, and his own deep breaths as he clings to the remnants of his composure as it melts into the silence.

He needs a smoke. With the absence of inspiration, the loneliness of his sprawling dwelling, he feels his mind swallowed by craving as he eyes the pack of cigarettes lying dormant upon the coffee table. Shaking hands reach for them, grasping the lighter along with the pack, before he lights a lone cigarette, dragging it to his lips with long, laboured breaths as smoke billows from his mouth.

Moments elapse, fading away into the past as the distant din of the Parisian streets slips from his conscious mind, dwindling to a faint hum as his woes melt into the clouds of tobacco.

“How classy,” he muses, twirling the death stick in his hand. “Park Chanyeol, child genius and internationally renowned pianist, smokes his troubles away like a teenage misfit.”

A deep chuckle escapes him, laced with bitter amusement as the smooth sounds fade into the distant hum of his surroundings, disintegrating until nothing remains but the smoke of his cigarette and his small smirk as he regards the cigarette with humoured disgust.

His deep brown eyes catch the pristine wood of his grand piano. He feels his gaze rest upon the instrument by the window, sun casting shimmering rays of sunlight upon the polished wood, mind raging internal war from the safehouse of his seat as he debates whether or not to approach it. 

In times long elapsed, lost beneath waves of inspiration, the man and his instrument, christened Bertie as a near overdose of whiskey seized all rational thought, were inseparable. Hours, days would elapse, distant lives, untold tales passing by beneath his window, as he sat at his piano, stuck in a permanent cycle of playing, writing, playing, writing, mind never straying from his music, which would overtake him, swallow him whole, whenever her stepped foot near the piano. Yet today, as smoke wafts through the morning's air, the bitter remnants of his woes, the sorrows which cling to his heart with such relentless desperation as his troubles slip away from him with each drag of the cigarette, the piano fades, fragmenting what was once his pride, his life source, into nothing more than a decoration.

A deep chuckle rings through the air, tone laced with raspiness as the toxic fumes invade his laden lungs. As the billowing smoke fades, clearing the air of its blissful ignorance to foregoing as the cigarette falls from his shaking grasp, the fumes which filled his soul of emptiness for a moment of glory and bliss thrusting his heart back into the prison of nothingness which swallowed him whole, he feels himself falling, his soul of peace and nonchalance slipping from his desperate grasp. And so, as the distant hum of morning’s Paris returns to the forefront of his mind, coughing engines and snippets of conversation clouding him, he slumps back in his armchair, closing his eyes as he waits for a new song to begin, to gently nudge him into the peace he so craves.

Until it doesn’t. Until the only sound wafting through the air, his only comfort, only consolation, is silence, in all its bitter glory. 

“If Fantasie Impromptu does not begin in the next ten seconds, someone will die,” he decides, words laced with a hint of humour and not-so-empty threat.

As seconds elapse, moments passing by him, melting into minutes spent in silence, he stares at the moody CD Player, his mind somewhere between willing and threatening the machine into cooperating with the grumpy virtuoso. 

A raspy sigh of disappointment elicits from between his chapped lips as silence takes a hold of his dwelling of lonely nights, windows pierced by sunlight as days elapse within the cruel confines of nothingness as people come and go among the cobbled streets beneath his window. A sudden wind hounds the space, bitter gusts swallowing the cool morning’s air with its violent calls as Chanyeol sits in indignant silence, slight blowing of his dark hair the only effect of the wind’s spell. He runs a veiny hand through the hairs, glowering eyes casting a glare as the gentle browns morph into pools of rage.

The breaths of winds cease as the clock strikes midday, melodic chimes of the nearby church echoing within his sullen mind. A shaking hand reaches for the coffee table, where a book lays dormant upon the polished wood, weeks spent gathering dust evident in the murky cover and fading spine. Another sigh escapes him as he draws open the book at the marked page, to discover the charming dalliance of an English peasant working in Southern France among times long elapsed. He seems to have abandoned the hurried reading upon the end of her relationship with a young prince, who, Chanyeol is entirely unashamed to admit, seems, based on the somewhat lacking description offered by the author, the finest man ever to have paid his sour mind a visit. He scoffs as the peasant breaks down, mind stuck in the between two realms, that of disgust and of disbelief, at the thought of himself reading romance novels. 

Shoving the book to the back of the shelf, eyes rife with hatred for the damned thing, he returns to his chair, slumping back in disappointment as the realisation dawns on him that the player is well and truly broken. His eyes catch the piano once again, eyebrows furrowed as his mind draws the bitter conclusion that, should the fallen virtuoso wish to hear Fantasie Impromptu, he shall have to play it himself.

“Who the fuck am I, Arthur Rubinstein?” He mutters.

Evidently, it’s been a while since he dared attempt a Chopin piece; despite his renowned technique, skilled fingering as passion burns within his beating heart with each note, he doubts his ability to play Chopin with the musicality required to tackle such a great, in fact, he doubts anyone’s ability to do such a thing, except, perhaps, for Arthur Rubinstein, and the composer himself.

He forgot how uncomfortable the piano stool was. Despite the padding, which he believes could barely be called padding, as he takes a seat, memories of hours riddled with pain spent hunched over polished keys come back to him in sudden waves as he feels something within him awake, come alive after years of hibernation. Slender fingers reach for keys coated in dust, a sudden melody pumping through his veins, fingers pressing each key with forgotten skill as his mind melts into the sound. His eyes close, mind adrift with the achingly familiar feeling of playing, of losing himself in the feeling, the sound of each key being woven together like a puzzle of greatness. Moments elapse before the tune even dawns on him and he realizes what he’s playing. Fantasie Impromptu, the subject of his rage and of his greatest desires. As the tune of chaos fades into something softer, gentle, like the passing of an eternal storm, he feels a forgotten smile wash over him, peace blossoming within his mind, the tranquility he once knew so well returning to him as the melody reigns over the looming silence. As the tune rises once again, the dawn of a new storm, he feels himself caught in it, entangled in each hurried note, trapped in a cage of song as revived passions burns within his beating heart.

As the song concludes, the pianist collapsing into himself, he feels yet another smile dancing across his lips as his melodies echo within him. The sounds of Paris, which had been washed away with the song, return to him, yet the tangled chatter, distant music and soft chirping of birds don’t seem so far away. For once, he feels a sense of belonging, the looming gate between himself and his surroundings torn down with his feat. A chuckle escapes him, strange world seeming so familiar as he feels his soul reborn among scattered song. 

Park Chanyeol, child prodigy, the legend that never was, returns above cobbled streets, on a chilly Monday morning in Paris. As new melodies drift into his mind, his fingers grasp papers and a pen, melodies pouring from the pen as the word “Sonata” is scratched into the top.

A genius reborn, as the morning fades into inspiration.


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: swearing, drugs and alcohol, sexual references. sorry for making you wait so long!

Park Chanyeol is, in the words of his hate-filled poetry, a forgotten genius, sunken beneath fragile waves as time took ahold of his sharp, blossoming mind, crushing it down until nothing remained but his glorious past and fruitless future. A withering rose, once a vision of enchantment and charm, now a stark reminder of the cruelty of time. And his genius has never felt more forgotten than now, as the man sits at his piano, watching his worn-down fountain pen leak onto a blank manuscript pad as his mind offers nothing in the realms of inspiration. 

Days have elapsed since his sudden epiphany, days which washed up fruitless, offering nothing but frustration and empty mugs of coffee. He reaches for the half-filled mug laying atop the piano, basking in the heat radiating from the mug as he devours the coffee inside. He doesn't know just how many coffees he's had today, nor does he want to, for he suspects the number would further prove his best friend's theory of him being a coffee addict. He turns his attention back to the manuscript. He learnt many years ago that there is nothing so daunting, so bitter as an empty manuscript. The very sight of his sends his mind spiraling back to his childhood, the years spent locked in his room as he tried to force himself into inspiration. Such thoughts are bittersweet to the man; the sweetness of inspiration and success watered down by the bitterness of failure and deadlines. But the past is the past. Now, in this caffeine infused moment of nothingness, such success, and all the trails which accompanied it, are gone, washed away with his faded genius. 

He picks up the blotched manuscript, a slight scowl arising as he stares at the paper, which is completely empty, except for the “Sonata” scratched into the top as inspiration intoxicated his troubled mind. He sighs, the manuscript thrown into a pile of botched ideas as the man trudges towards the kitchen, darkened eyes laced with a profound hunger for alcohol.

Moments later, he returns to the living room, red wine clutched in his hand serving as his only companion. A faraway beat flows from the dust-coated record player sat upon the table, voices of melancholy echoing in the distance with the song. There's something haunting among the sounds, something ethereal washed beneath waves of melancholy as he closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair as he allows himself to fall into the sound, letting it pull him into its charms, fill his lungs with its symphonies of intoxication as the mind is lit with a match of forgotten song. 

As the song comes to a close and the room falls into a familiar silence, his eyes flutter open, a groan escaping him as he sits up. His glass of wine seems to have survived the movements, and he takes a generous sip to reward his carefulness. Baby steps, he supposes. Reward the little things, then you'll reach the big things. 

His mother always told him that. 

Memories laced with nostalgia come flooding back with the words; oceans of tears bore from the hunger for success drained by the comforting words, warm hugs and soft whispers of his mother as nights melted away by the warm flames of the roaring living room fire. A childhood of pressure and fame, washed down by a mother's love. 

He rolls his eyes, letting out a huff as he reaches for the tartan blanket laying next to him and pulls it over his legs. His eyes catch the piano once more, but he doesn't move, doesn't think. Just looks away. Looks towards the TV, opens up Netflix and falls into slumber’s clutches to the opening theme of some terrible Netflix show. 

Hours later, he awakes, flung from his slumbers by the achingly-familiar shrieks of a voice he knows all too well. He barely has time to sit up before a tiny figure draped in pink has flung itself over his lap, offering Chanyeol an obnoxious smile to match the man's piercing glare. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” he huffs. 

“I felt your suffering in my bones and I knew I had to come and cheer you up,” the boy grins, a giggle slipping past his lips. 

“I don't have time for your bullshit. Answer me.”

“I told you, I used my magical powers to-”

“Do I have to kick you out of my house? Or are you going to give me a straight fucking answer?” Chanyeol growls. 

The boy laughs out loud, playfully hitting the musician on the arm. “I'm messing with you, Yeol,” he giggles. “You pocket-dialed me when you were sleeping. All I heard was your snoring and I've known you long enough to know that midday naps are a sure sign that a breakdown is on the horizon.”

Chanyeol groans and shoves the boy off his lap, an action which is met by a blood-curdling scream as the flash of pink falls to the ground. 

“Cunt.”

It is only as cries of protest fill the air that Chanyeol notices the presence of another in his apartment - a short man draped in red, dark eyes piercing the boy on the floor with their heavy gaze as a small smirk plays on his lips.

“Who the fuck are you?” Chanyeol asks, trying to keep his voice somewhat civil. 

“Kim Jongdae,” the man says, smirk widening into a wide smile which washes over his face. 

“Okay, Kim Jongdae, what are you doing in my apartment?”

“I came with Baekhyun,” Jongdae explains. “I live in New York and I'm staying with him while I'm here.”

Chanyeol turns to the boy, Baekhyun, who has removed himself from the floor and now lies draped across the sofa as if it were his throne. “You never told me you had guests, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol says. 

“And why should I? They're not staying here,” Baekhyun huffs. 

“I still want to know what's going on in your life.” He turns to Jongdae, who has settled down next to Baekhyun, allowing the pink-haired boy to nuzzle into his chest. “Care to introduce yourself properly? Or do you prefer the element of mystery?”

“I do not. Like I said, I'm Jongdae,” he says, ring-clad hands resting on Baekhyun's back. “I live in New York.” 

“Are you married?” Chanyeol asks. 

“What?” 

“The rings-” 

“Are for decoration.”

“Oh.”

Baekhyun gives a loud laugh at Chanyeol's seemingly foolish words. “Who the hell is gonna marry Jongdae? He spends so much time at Birdlove-”

“Birdland,” Jongdae corrects. 

“Yeah, yeah, Birdland. Spends so much time at Birdland he barely has time to sleep, let alone date,” Baekhyun informs. 

Something deep within Chanyeol's mind jolts in recognition at the name. He frowns, dark eyebrows creasing in thought as he tries in vain to place it. “Birdland? I recognise that name.”

“It's pretty well known.” A proud smile dances across Jongdae’s lips with the words. “It's my jazz bar in New York. We're pretty popular - a hundred or so per day. I play there myself sometimes.”

Chanyeol groans, a scream of exasperation on the tip of his tongue. A jazz bar. A fucking jazz bar. Of course the man who'd waltzed into his apartment uninvited and felt up his best friend on his sofa was a jazz musician. Of course the man who wore marriage rings for decoration was an enabler of the absolute worst type of music. Of fucking course. 

“You're jazz musician.” Despite his sudden realisation, his voice drips with disbelief. 

“Yes,” Jongdae confirms.

“You play jazz in your jazz bar.”

“I said that.”

“How many people - jazz musicians - do I have to call a cunt before someone gets the fucking message?” Chanyeol growls. 

“There's nothing wrong with jazz-” Jongdae starts, words barely out of his mouth before they're shot down by the grumpy pianist. 

“There's everything wrong with jazz. Jazz brings shame to the name of music. I'm in no mood to tolerate jazz players, or the people who associate with them.” On the final word, he turns to Baekhyun. 

“And you,” he snaps. “You let a jazz musician into my apartment?”

“It's not a big deal, Yeol. You're just tired.”

Chanyeol slumps down onto an armchair, shaking hands reaching for a loose cigarette laying upon the table. “Get out of my apartment, Baekhyun. And take that jazz player with you.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, moving towards the door when Jongdae interrupts. “Come with us.”

“What?”

“Come out with us. I've never been to Paris at night, and you look like you could use a night on the town.”

“Watch your tongue,” Chanyeol snaps. 

“Exactly my point.” Jongdae’s words are laced with smugness, sparking a hate-fueled fire within Chanyeol's heart. He takes another drag of the cigarette, dark eyes following the heavy smoke wafting through the evening's air. 

“Fine,” he huffs. “Where do you suggest?”

“What about Wanderlust?”

“Wanderlust?” Chanyeol snorts. “I'm not 18, I'm not going to some stupid nightclub.”

“C'mon, Yeol-”

“Don't call me that.”

“Okay, Yeol. You need to let loose, let off some steam! Set free the old man trapped in your soul.”

“There is no old man in my soul,” Chanyeol huffs. “Just a young man who's sick of this world and especially sick of you.”

“Alright, Edgelord,” Baekhyun teases, earning a warning look from the pianist. “Dae’s right, though, you could use a dance! Come have some fun.”

“Alright, fine, I'll come,” Chanyeol concedes. “But I refuse to have any fun.”

Turning a deaf ear to the gleeful cheers filling the air, Chanyeol rises from his chair, putting out the cigarette and letting it fall from his shaking hand into the ashtray. 

“By the way, Baekhyun, that key was for emergencies, not for when you feel like coming here and interrupting me when I'm composing,” he says. “Next time, you knock.”

Baekhyun snorts. “Next time, I kick the door down.”  
_________

“This is Wanderlust?”

In all honesty, Chanyeol expected more, despite his blind hatred for the club upon the very uttering of its name. Visions of throbbing lights, red carpets, drunk teenagers out cold on the sidewalk had filled his mind upon Jongdae’s suggestion, and this is a let down, to say the least. 

“This is Wanderlust,” Baekhyun confirms, voice laced with excitement. 

“It's garbage,” Chanyeol announces. “No wonder you like it.”

“It's nicer on the inside,” Baekhyun reassures, seemingly ignoring the casual jab offered by the musician. 

A sigh elicits from Jongdae as he stands in silent judgement of the building, hand absentmindedly tapping against his thigh to the beat of the EDM music blaring through the evening's air. “As much as I love you, Baekhyun, this place looks like shit.”

“I told you, it's nicer on the inside,” Baekhyun says, “just give it a shot.”

“I agree with Jongdae,” Chanyeol contributes. “The night's barely begun and you've somehow already ruined it.” 

“Oh, lighten up, Yeol, you haven't even given it a chance yet.”

“I gave it more of a chance than I have given anything this week by simply agreeing to go,” Chanyeol says. “And this is a bitter reminder of why I do not give things chances.”

“Give it a shot, Yeol, you might like it! And who knows, maybe there's a pretty young drunk in there, waiting to dance with yo-”

“Shut the fuck up, Byun,” Chanyeol snaps, shoving the smaller towards the open doors of the club. “I'm here because you forced me, not to take advantage of intoxicated college students.”

“Well I am,” Baekhyun decides, “no one can resist my charms.”

Jongdae snorts, seizing Baekhyun's wrist and pulling him through the doors of the club. “We'll see about that.”  
_________

Blazing lights invade him as they step through the doors, strobe lighting jumping across the walls as partygoers in various stages of intoxication move across the dancefloor, weaving between the music and their nameless companions as the night slips away in the world outside. 

It's early in the evening, and a flicker of light remains in the sky, but, aside from the obnoxious disco lights, the club is pitch black. Faces, identities, stories fade into the lights as the three walk inside. Whilst the eyes of Chanyeol and Jongdae close in disappointment, Baekhyun's grow wide, laced with the intoxication of excitement.

“I'm going to dance,” he says.

“I'm going to the bar. A few drinks and I'll forget this night ever happened,” Chanyeol says. 

Jongdae snorts. “The night has barely begun, my friend. Based on this place I'd say it will be a train wreck, but who knows?”

“I know,” Chanyeol snaps. “I'm going to the bar.”

The two shrug before stepping onto the dancefloor, faces sinking into the mob of dancers as the music begins to invade his skull. 

The bar is packed. Drunks and drunks-to-be crowd the area, shouted orders lost to the music as the bartender bounces between orders and drinks. As Chanyeol clears his throat, the bartender turns, offering him a small smile. “I'll be with you in a minute.”

“Sure.”

Moments elapse in waiting, Chanyeol's thirst for alcohol taking him over, swallowing him in craving before the bartender reaches him, offering a polite smile which is half-heartedly returned. 

“Alright, what can I get you?”

“Champagne, please,” Chanyeol says, politeness taking even himself by surprise. 

“Big night?” 

“Bad night. I'm drowning my frustrations in alcohol.”

“Well, you're not the first, kid,” the bartender chuckles. “But they usually go for vodka. I can get you some of that?”

“I have a little class, stranger.”

“Very well, champagne it is. Glass or bottle?”

“Bottle.”

“Damn, it really is a bad night,” the bartender says. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Chanyeol mutters, deep voice barely audible among the deafening roars of the club. 

Taking a sip from the shimmering glass he'd poured the drink into, he turns in his seat, glazed eyes prowling across the club, watching in silent contemplation as the heavy bass of the achingly repetitive beat echoes deep within himself. His eyes darken with each sip as his mind falls from the confines of reality, vision blurring with his ever-loosening grip on actuality. The heavy beats of the music begin to blur, fade into nothing more than a distant sound, pulled apart by the grasp of alcohol-infused bliss. 

Glassy eyes catch the gaze of Jongdae, who appears engaged in conversation. Though the song conceals the nature of his interaction, the soft smile lingering on his lips, paired with loud laughter that floats through the air above the music, indicate his enjoyment. His companion is faced away from him, dressed in all black and occasionally nodding and gesturing, and so Chanyeol can't see his face, but they both seem at peace, so he turns his mind away from it. Not that he cares about Jongdae. He's just a jazz musician, after all. 

The tune draws to a sudden close, pulling scattered chattering of faceless companions to the forefront of Chanyeol's mind as his gaze bounces from person to person, never lingering for more than a second before floating away, drifting into the noise as a new song begins.

It's much the same; heavy bass thundering between the loud screeches of the electronic beats, weaving a familiar headache within the musician as he downs yet another glass of champagne. Sensing the lingering presence someone next to him, he turns, growlingly intoxicated mind jolting in recognition at the face of his best friend. 

“Fuck off Baekhyun,” he shouts. “Go whore around with someone else.”

“No thanks,” Baekhyun snorts. “Everyone here's either hopped up on coke or wants to dissolve me in acid.”

“I will dissolve you in acid.”

“We all know you want to, Yeol,” the smaller giggles, “But not tonight. I'm still waiting for someone to charm my way into bed with.”

Chanyeol gives a loud laugh, uncharacteristically high for the elder. “Go charm them then. Hopefully you get punched in the face.”

“Wouldn't be the first time,” the boy laughs as he slides away from the bar, waltzing onto the dancefloor as if it belonged to him. 

Chanyeol's gaze lingers on his friend, following the boy as his troubles and sanity appear to melt away with each movement. He turns to seize another glass, hand reaching for it when a firm hand grasps his hand. 

“What the fu-” He looks up, eyes of rage meeting the dark greens of the bartender. 

“I'll give you some advice, kid,” he says. “Cut yourself off soon if you don't want to embarrass yourself. Else I'll have to cut you off myself.”

“I've only had two glasses,” Chanyeol defends.

“I saw. But you seem like an aggressive drunk, seeing as how you've had two glasses you've already threatened to dissolve your friend in acid. After four you'll probably go through with it.”

“I've been drunker than this. I told you, I'm drinking the pain away. It's your job to give me the drinks to drink.”

A smirk washes over the bartender as he releases Chanyeol's arm from his grip. “Normally, I would give you the drinks. But someone's had his eye on you since you came in, and I wouldn't want to let you throw away your chance of a good time by, I dunno, decking him in the face, or something.”

“Are you having a laugh?” Chanyeol splutters. “I'm not a child, you can't intervene at two drinks.”

“Not intervening, just suggesting. Besides, you haven't even seen him yet. I have no reservations in saying that I would have a go at him if he'd let me.”

“You're talking about him like he's an object.”

“Of course not. Just telling you he's quite the catch. But you're pretty decent yourself, I'm sure you could snatch him if you wanted. Which is why I'm suggesting you stop drinking. Consider me a wingman.”

A sigh elicits from the man. “Fine. I'll stop. Now show me the one who was looking at me.”

“Over there,” he says, pointing a dirtied finger towards the packed dance floor. “I don't need to describe him. You'll see him right away.”

Chanyeol turns to the dancefloor, gaze jumping from person to person as he tries to spot the one who'd taken such an interest in him. No one catches his eye. 

“You're lying,” he says to the bartender. “No one's catching my eye.”

“Just wait.”

And so he waits, moments elapsing as the dancefloor seems to shrivel under his heavy Gaze. He gives a scoff of disinterest, before the crowd clears. 

He sees him right away.

A phantom of movement, he moves with practiced grace, stealing, using, moulding each beat into his own. His eyes are closed in a passionate trance, mind blissfully unaware to the gazes of longin thrown in his direction by all

who turn an eye to him. 

The rest of the world seems to fade, melt into nothing more than a blur as time slips by unbeknownst to the musician. His eyes linger on the figure, body frozen in enchantment as he feels himself pulled into his charms. His breath hitches in his throat as the man - no, the God, a forgotten deity of movement - slows down to match the beat, carefully-carved features relaxing as the beat comes to a stop. 

“Wow,” he breathes,adrenaline pumping through him as though he had just come down from a high. 

“Stop wowing over him and go talk to him,” the bartender says, suddenly reappearing in the corner of Chanyeol's eye. 

Chanyeol nods, but doesn't move. 

“Go!” the bartender yells, shoving the man in the arm as he stumbles onto the dance floor.

The man meets his gaze immediately, slight smirk tugging on his lips as he approaches the other. 

“I saw you dance,” Chanyeol says. 

“Really?” the man says, slight smirk dancing across his lips. “Did you like what you saw?”

“Very much,” Chanyeol says.

“I'm glad,” comes the response, “But I'm afraid I didn't see you watching. Shame, really. I would've liked to see how wide your eyes can get.”

“Pretty wide, when they're watching you.”

“I could do it shirtless, next time. See how wide they get then.”

“I- What?” Chanyeol splutters, struck with an unfamiliar fluster coursing through his veins. “What are you implying?”

“I just want to dance for you, darling,” the other purrs in Chanyeol's ear, hot breath lingering on the man's neck as his lips ghost across it. 

“I- yeah, sure, okay,” Chanyeol says, voice threatening to break with flustered confusion.

“Are you flustered, my love?” the man asks with a soft smile. “Shame. You seemed so confident when you walked in.”

“I am confident!” His voice comes out louder than intended and he kicks himself. 

“Really?” the man laughs. “So I broke Mr. Confident’s immaculate composure with one sentence?”

Chanyeol snorts. “Don’t get cocky with me, boy, you didn't break my composure with a sentence.”

A smirk plays on the man’s lips as his movements speed up, body swaying to match the change of song. “The confidence returns. I like this song,” he adds with a smile. 

“I don't,” Chanyeol says. 

“Is there anything you like?”

Giving it a moment's thought, Chanyeol shrugs. “Music, smoking, wine…” He trails off, mind offering no additions to the dismal list carrying eerie similarities to that of an 18-year-old high school dropout. 

“Smoking?” the man says, eyebrow raised in interest. “That will kill you, love.”

“Good.”

A deep chuckle escapes the man, laced in amusement and a hint of curiosity. The thundering bass of the song comes to a sudden stop, replaced with a gentle, far-off guitar, only accompaniment the hushed tones of a vocalist, whose deep voice rings throughout the club as the dancefloor clears in discontent for the sudden change in atmosphere. Chanyeol smiles. This song is well within the realm of his interest. His hands grasp the man's hips, gently swaying him as he buries his head in the musician's shoulder. He runs a hand through the man's hair, a blissful sigh escaping him as he loses himself in the moment, allowing a free fall into the tender beats of the music, and the gentle, far-off touches of his companion.

“First good song of the night,” he mutters. 

The man gives a soft laugh, faint sounds lost to the music as the peaceful tune floats away, replaced with yet another bass-fed EDM beat. 

Chanyeol groans. “Well, it was nice while it lasted. Can we go somewhere quieter?”

“Sure, baby,” the man mumbles, lifting his head from Chanyeol's shoulder. “Where do you suggest?”

“Let me take you home. Round off this night with a little bit of fun. What do you think, babe?”

The man laughs. “Oh, baby, I'm afraid I lead you on. I don't want anything out of this night besides your company. I came here to dance, only dance.”

Chanyeol groans, running a hand through his dark hair. “What did you expect me to think? You flirted with me with me all night.”

“You fell for it.”

“Fair enough. What do you want to do, then?”

“Let's dance until we pass out and never see each other again,” the man suggests with a smile. 

Chanyeol smiles. “Okay.”

And so they danced, weaving between tipsy teen girls and handsy couples as they swirled across the dancefloor, tender movements falling into each beat as time slips by with each faded beat. Chanyeol feels his mind fall into the music, once exhausting rhythms pulling him into enchantment as he feels himself lose control of his body, each movement coming unprompted as though bore from an enchantment of music. 

Hours elapse, lost to the sound as the club rises and falls with the hours that come and go. As another song stops and the floor clears, the man breaks away from Chanyeol. With a soft caress of his cheek, he leans to whisper into his ear. 

“My love,” he begins, hushed tones laced with enchantment. “It's been fun. But it's getting late - or, should I say, early.”

“You're leaving?” Chanyeol asks. 

“Yes, love. I'm a busy man, there's a lot to do tomorrow.”

Chanyeol nods, a soft sigh eliciting from him. “Thanks for tonight, then, love. I needed the distraction.”

“I'm always happy to distract you, baby,” the man says. “If you can find me, that is.”

“You could give me your number,” Chanyeol suggests. “I'm always around.”

The man gives a chuckle at his supposed naivety, grasping Chanyeol's hand with his own. “Baby, I'm not looking for love. I'm looking for a good time. And I got it.”

“Okay,” Chanyeol says, voice dripping with barely-concealed disappointment. 

The man smiles, letting Chanyeol's hand fall from his grasp. As he begins to fade into the blur of faces, something in Chanyeol jolts in disappointment. 

“Wait,” he shouts. 

The man turns, tired smile flickering across his lips. “Yes, love?”

“I never got your name.”

The smile fades momentarily, before reappearing across his lips, brimming with adoration yet never reaching his ever dark eyes. 

“Kai,” he says, “My name is Kai.”

And Chanyeol watches, glued to the dancefloor, bound by love and helplessness, as Kai turns once more, flashes a smile, and walks away. 

Gone with the night, a fleeting moment of bliss.


End file.
